


judgment day

by TolkienGirl



Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [169]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Expectation of...Something...what could it bE, Gen, Huan POV, Mithrim, We love a Huan POV in this community
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:47:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21959860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: All hunters hunt themselves, someday.
Relationships: Celegorm | Turcafinwë & Huan, Huan & Maedhros | Maitimo
Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [169]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1300685
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	judgment day

Deep in old places

There is a boy with flat dark hair and flat dark brows, who is all warmth,

whom you do not hate like your master does.

_Fetch, Huan._ He is brittle. He throws a stick, and you bring it back very reverently, to show him that all is still as it was between you, or if it is not…

Then he (your master) may lay the blame at _your_ feet.

 _Yes,_ you yelp, to tell him. _Yes. Us._

So many scents have gone missing. The new do not replace the old.

Deep in old places there is a master who is not _your_ master but whom you serve, a beautiful master with lean hands, light eyes, hollow bones.

In and out, in and out his hands

slip from your fur and stroke your head and when he suffered you

gathered all you had, all the warmth you had, until he sighed and breathed.

That one didn’t always breathe when he should. Some humans are like that.

Your master speaks more with his heartbeat than anything else. Here is the scent of bodies—even gone, you seek them—and yet he stands as stiff as stone at the edge of the metal-tanged road. Your master does not call your name, does not stroke you between the ears. His heartbeat tells you of his uneasiness.

All hunters hunt themselves, someday, and some humans are like that.

When the small one comes, their voices carry.

_Cloud of dust. Who? No idea._

You are clever in one thing: your nose. The wind carries you all its whispered answers and you throw back your head, joyful in one dog-task,

Howl, _Huan_ , sing your name—

because the one from deep places is here.


End file.
